


irregular insecurity

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [48]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, John is a Saint, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, Soft Boys, Tumblr Prompt, neck brace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26512408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Even Consulting Detectives feel insecure sometimes. Luckily for Sherlock, John is a saint.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [48]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 18
Kudos: 89





	irregular insecurity

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by Anon on Tumblr:
> 
> _I have a (weird I accept) desire to read a fic where Sherlock is self-conscious about something, unexpectedly, and John cottons on and is supportive. The idea in my head is Sherlock injuring his neck and having to wear a neck brace (prompted by BC’s long lovely neck, I think) and not wanting to go out with it on and John being all supportive and encouraging. But it could be some other thing that Sherlock needs reassurance about._
> 
> Can be read as pre-slash, established relationship, or hella good bros.

Sherlock’s complaints drifted to John in the kitchen, drawing his attention away from the article he was reading. 

“ _Must_ I wear this thing?”

Setting his newspaper aside, John sighed before he rose and padded out into the hall. He glanced toward the end. Sherlock’s bedroom door stood open, the man himself framed in the doorway. He was scowling at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror, tugging futilely at the collar of one of his suits. A thick, white neck brace disrupted the line of his fitted jacket, and the button wouldn’t quite close. 

“Yes,” John said, moving to join him before the mirror. “Doctor’s orders.” 

Sherlock shot him a glare. _“Your_ orders,” he snapped, tugging at the button without success. Taking pity on him, John reached out and carefully fastened the offending button, smoothing a gentle hand over Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“No, Doctor Connor’s orders.” He tilted his head and conceded, “Okay, and mine, too.” Another soothing touch, this time to Sherlock’s elbow. “But it’s only for a couple of weeks. Just to be safe.”

Sherlock’s expression could have struck a man dead at fifty paces. “Safe is _boring_ , _”_ he snarled, long fingers scraping over the neck collar. John caught his hand and pulled it away. 

“Again, it’s just a few weeks. Now, come on. Greg’s waiting for us.”

“Who?”

John rolled his eyes. _“Lestrade._ Come on, he called for us an hour ago.”

“I’ll get there when I get there,” Sherlock shot back, still frowning at his reflection, two fingers tugging at his suit jacket. John paused, turned the words over in his head, and wondered at the odd timing of Sherlock’s sudden strop. Usually, such behaviour only reared its head _after_ a case, not before it had even begun. And it was a double murder, something Sherlock usually thrilled in.

“It sounds like it’s at least an eight,” he replied, hoping to tempt Sherlock away from the edge of an impending sulk. Sherlock’s lips pursed, and he refused to look at John. 

“I’m sure Scotland Yard can handle it themselves.” 

John’s eyebrows shot up. “Alright, who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

Instead of rising to the bait, Sherlock scoffed. Ripping off his suit jacket, he spun away from his reflection and brushed past John to storm down the hallway. John followed, bewildered, watching the moody detective perch carefully on the edge of the sofa. It was such a far cry from his usual dramatic flounce and sprawl that John paused. An idea was forming, what Sherlock would have called a deduction, and John studied Sherlock’s stiff posture as his mind worked over the evidence.

Sherlock never turned down a case higher than a 6, and _never_ a double homicide. He rarely, if ever, seemed insecure about his clothing, especially his snug dress shirts and tailored suit jackets. Quite the opposite, the man seemed to _thrive_ on the ridiculously tight fabric. John, by contrast, preferred soft, comfortable clothing, much to Sherlock’s constant sneering. 

The idea that formed made him approach the irate detective with a softened voice and a cautious step. “You could borrow a jumper if you like.” 

Sherlock stiffened. Staring straight ahead, he didn’t look at John, but his eyes narrowed. “Why would I do that?”

John tried a different tact. “What about one of those nice jumpers your mother bought you last Christmas?” Sherlock made a sharp noise of negation, and John squinted, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Sherlock glanced his way, upper body swivelling due to the inability to turn his neck.

“Stop it,” he hissed. John raised an eyebrow and sat carefully on the arm of his chair.

“Stop what?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further, angry slits glittering in his flushed face. “Stop. Deducing. Me.”

An amused snort escaped John before he could stop it. “Hello, kettle.” 

Upper lip curling back, Sherlock snarled at him, “Shut _up,_ John.” 

John subsided, watching Sherlock closely. Beneath all the bravado, the hissing, spitting ire, he saw something else. There was an obvious discomfort there, and a flash of fleeting vulnerability that lingered in Sherlock’s eyes. John thought back to the argument with the suit jacket and realized the button wasn’t the problem. 

Rising to his feet, he crossed to the sofa and sank down next to Sherlock. “Hey,” he said gently, resisting the urge to smile at Sherlock’s stubbornness when he refused to turn toward him. “It’s only a couple of weeks. I know the collar isn’t comfortable, but if you don’t wear it, you’re risking permanent damage.”

Sherlock’s lips pulled back as he bared his teeth. “I don’t need you to cite the _medical brochure_ at me, John,” he ground out, a muscle jumping in his jaw. There was a faint, subtle waver in the growled words, and John softened. Reaching out, ignoring Sherlock’s bristle, he stroked his fingertips over the back of Sherlock’s hand. Despite his stiff, angry posture, Sherlock immediately flipped his hand over, letting John lace their fingers together. 

John smiled and squeezed gently. “It might be easier if you wore a jumper. Or, just. Something a little looser.”

“I am _not_ wearing a jumper, John,” Sherlock sniffed, shooting him a sharp little glare from the corner of his eyes. He was still facing forward, his posture stiff. The position couldn’t be doing anything good for his bruised cervical muscles, and John resisted the urge to reach up and feel for tension in his shoulders. It was better to let the collar do its job, and he doubted Sherlock would welcome the gesture.

Another thought occurred, followed by understanding. “No one is going to make fun of you.”

Sherlock tensed further, and John silently thought, _ah_. There it was. Despite all the cases he had solved, many of the Yarders still whispered cruel things behind Sherlock’s back (and Sally always did it right to his face). Part of Sherlock’s armour was his pristine appearance, a way of presenting himself in a way that left no opening for ridicule. That way, they could only pick at his behaviour, his strange predilections for solving murders and exhilarating in what he called The Game. The neck brace was a chink in the armour.

When Sherlock didn’t reply, John stroked his thumb lightly over the side of the hand twined with his. “We don’t have to go,” he said, and Sherlock glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. He didn’t speak, and John added, “You’re right. Greg and his team can probably figure this one out on their own.” He paused, met Sherlock’s wary eyes, and offered a small smile. “But, just so you know, I’d love to see them try to say anything with me there.” He flexed the fingers of his free hand toward his palm, the knuckles still bruised and healing from when he had socked the man who had choked Sherlock three days ago, the cause of their current conversation. “I think my fist is ready for another go.” He offered a crooked smile, the one he knew always made Sherlock grin. And, without fail, the corner of Sherlock’s lips twitched. 

“Quite right,” Sherlock murmured, and John gave his hand one last squeeze before standing. 

“So,” he said, turning with a raised brow, “Thai?”

Sherlock cleared his throat delicately and blinked down at his lap. “Actually, I…” he paused, brow furrowing before he looked up at John carefully. “Perhaps a jumper?” 

Hiding his smile, John tilted his head. “One of mine?” He chuckled at Sherlock’s grimace of distaste. “Aright, okay. One of your mum’s?” At Sherlock’s attempt at a nod, he asked, “The red one?” 

Sherlock bit his lip, and his gaze skated away. “The… blue one.” He coughed softly. “It’s the same colour as your eyes.”

This time, John couldn’t keep the smile from spreading over his face. “Mm, yeah. I knew I liked that one for a reason.” Turning toward the hall, he paused when Sherlock drew out his mobile. “Are you calling for the takeaway?” he asked, knowing the assumption was wrong, but playing dumb.

“No,” Sherlock hummed, tapping at the keys. “Letting Lestrade know we’ll be there within the hour.” 

“Very considerate,” John replied, turning away to hide his grin.


End file.
